


more than half a crime

by theviolonist



Category: The Following
Genre: Knifeplay, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the knives in this house are painstakingly well-sharpened; they did it the day after their housewarming party, like a spring cleaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	more than half a crime

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Valentine's Day comment porn ficathon](http://upupa-epops.livejournal.com/225933.html). Title from Poe's _Serenade_. Also, bear with me, I'm not good with porn - but I get a cookie for trying, right?

"When do you think he's going to call us?"

The blade stills on the carrot, ready to slice through it. All the knives in this house are painstakingly well-sharpened; they did it the day after their housewarming party, like a spring cleaning. 

Paul sighs, setting the knife down on the bar. "He will," he says. "Just... we have to wait, okay? Be patient."

Jacob twirls the knife through his fingers. His is smaller, but the blade is longer, smooth as it draws elongated figures in the air. It's like there's no difference between the blade and the handle for him - he's never cautious, always lets the tip drag against his skin, the center of his palm, his wrist. Paul watches him for a second, still fascinated even after six months together, and leans against the bar. 

He reaches a hand, touches Jacob's hip with two fingers. "It's fine."

Jacob gets nervous regularly, every time a new month finishes. He can't settle into the fake ordinary as seamlessly as Paul can; he's always restless, relentlessly searching for the flaws in their plan. Sometimes Paul hears him hashing it out again in his dreams, mumbling incoherent commands. 

Jacob's eyes flick down to the ground, then back up. They flit on Paul's lips for a second, and then he smiles. Relief floods in Paul's chest. They're good together. The equilibrium is unstable, but that's what equilibrium is all about, isn't it? 

Paul watches as Jacob's tongue traces over his teeth, digging into the small ridges. There's still something like doubt in the wrinkles on his forehead, but it doesn't matter. Paul plants his feet in the ground, waiting. It reminds him of the first time Jacob was like that, standing before him; the way he reached out and kissed him, and added teeth, and laughed. This time, though, Emma isn't there in the background with her hawk-like eyes to make Jacob doubt himself. 

In the end he almost doesn't see it: one minute Jacob's just _there_ , the knife a prolongation of his arm along his hip, and the second the tip is pressed against his carotid and Paul can't remember ever having seen Jacob look happier. But maybe happy isn't the right word.

Paul can't say he isn't afraid, because he is - but it's the good kind of fear, the one Joe taught him to master and control, that has adrenalin fill his veins, hot, urgent, immediate. Paul remembers Joe, acutely, as he crossed his arms on the metal of the hearing booth and leaning in, whispering into the telephone. "Your fear is your power, Paulie. Don't be afraid of letting go. You can do anything you want with the power it gives you. Ordinary people refuse to give in because they don't understand how sublime it is, but you and me - you and me, Paulie, we understand." It was then that the guard had said visiting hours were over and pulled Joe away from the booth, but the words stayed with Paul. They're there now. They're there all the time. 

So he doesn't cower, doesn't walk back where Jacob's knife would undoubtedly follow him; he doesn't ask what's going on, for God's sake. Instead he presses back, not a lot - just enough for the tip to dig into the skin and pierce it, tear a single, round drop of blood from his neck. He arches an eyebrow. _I can still surprise you, yeah?_

Jacob laughs. It's throaty, wiry, aroused. "Get down," he says. He takes a step forward and suddenly they're pressed together, the long, lean heat of him against every inch of Paul. The hard buckle of his belt pushes against Paul's crotch, makes him want to squirm. Paul remembers vaguely, from college, fucking one or two girls. He would tie them to the bedpost and they'd like it, but they always said he wasn't as rough as he said he was; it didn't matter, they liked him anyway. He remembers being inside them, pulsing but always unsatisfied; _this_ is the most closeness he's ever felt. Their damp, cloying sweetness doesn't even compare.

"Get down," Jacob repeats. 

Paul won't disobey - never; not to him - but he takes a moment more to enjoy Jacob's chest against his, the strong, racing pulse of his blood-full heart, the tangled bones of their ankles, the almost-ache of Jacob's knee forcing him to spread his thighs, hard against his calf. Jacob's hand wraps around his forearm, tightens where he knows he can stop the blood. They borrowed a few of Sarah's textbooks once. It was an imprudent move but Paul doesn't regret it, doesn't regret one minute of it, and he knows Jacob doesn't either: they spent long, heady hours learning the nooks and corners blood likes to pool into, imagining, alone or together, how to tear them, twist them; where a thumb could press and paralyze the entire body without effort; what bones were the most easily broken, snapped in two in a quick play of fingers. 

He slides to his knees. When they touch the ground he presses his forehead against Jacob's right knee, minutely, listens to the ebb and flow of his own blood under Jacob's knife, now pressed against the sensitive skin between Paul's jaw and his throat, just the right angle to be dangerous. He feels light-headed, restless - his hands fumble at Jacob's belt, and Jacob makes a noise, half-keening and half-moaning. Paul presses his nose into the cloth of his underwear, then drags it down to his thighs. He always loved doing that, he doesn't care about what his father used to say. He's good at it, too. 

Jacob doesn't like it, he thinks as he gets more comfortable on the floor and engulfs Jacob's cock in his mouth, his palms splayed on his thighs, rough cloth juxtaposing over skin. He thinks it's degrading, he doesn't like being on his knees. Paul knows better. The knife quivers against his flesh, and he pushes against it, his throat working. The blade scratches his Adam's apple. Jacob's cock is beautiful, long rather than thick, red with protruding veins. If Paul could get his hands on the knife... later. 

He's done this countless of times, so it doesn't take long to bring Jacob to the brink. The knife moves from his jaw to his cheeks he sucks, traces the shell of his ear. A thrill runs up Paul's spine, making him shake a little. He moans something, his throat constricting around Jacob's cock. A short, hot buzz shoots through both of them. The blade errs near Paul's eye, could take it out at any imprudent movement, blood gushing like they've heard Joe describe and talked about between them, first at the meeting place and then between the two of them, together in a bed that wasn't theirs, not really. They're waiting - but Paul always thought, _why not?_ Oh, how he wishes Emma were there. 

The knife is against his scalp now, tracing shapes on his forehead and Jacob's thighs are shaking and he buries his other hand in Paul's hair, gripping it like a lifeline. The satisfaction that shoots through Paul is savage, violent, tears him in two like lightning, and his own cock fills with blood. You were right, Joe. I have power too. Jacob is a fool - just because you're on your knees doesn't mean you're not a master. Paul swirls his tongue around the tip of Jacob's cock, fondling his balls with his other hand, and here it is. Jacob groans. Paul's fingers dig into the flesh of his thighs, the knife tears into his skin, slices a long cut across his temple, blood leaks, hot and thick, Jacob's back curves and his cock pushes into Paul's throat until he chokes on it and his eyes swell with painful tears, he smiles, blood runs across his cheek and wets Jacob's fingers that curve painfully around the nape of Paul's neck, crushing. 

"I'm -" he starts, but doesn't finish. Paul is grateful. You never know which name he's going to scream, right? He prefers the assurance of his come filling his throat, hot, bubbling at the corners of his mouth and dribbling a little on his chin, mingling with the blood - at least then he's sure.

He laps playfully at the come on his lips, looks up at Jacob. His hair is wild, sweat-matted bangs sticking to his forehead and dangling around his ears. Paul thinks about standing up and kissing him, at the risk of slitting his own throat, but instead he drags his fingers along his own cheek, collecting the come and sweat and blood, and wraps them around the handle of the knife. "My turn," he says as it slips smoothly out of Jacob's grip and Jacob looks down, surprised, his eyes still almost entirely black, pupils dilated. 

Paul stays on his knees. He's proving a point, after all. His cock still aches, restrained in the denim, but he doesn't mind, he kinda likes the pain. Oh, who is he kidding? Of course he likes the pain. If he didn't he wouldn't be here. See, just that's a good enough reason not to regret anything.

He holds the knife like a gun, not touching the blade. They're different, and that's fine - he feels good like this, the blade pointing straight to Jacob's stomach, his cock still hanging obscenely out of his pants, flaccid. Oh, this is just too much fun. Paul surprises himself when he doesn't hesitate. The blade tears through the flimsy material of Jacob's T-shirt, two clear, curved lines to create the letter: P. How do you feel about that, heh? 

Jacob looks down at him, astonished. Paul laughs and laughs and laughs and uses the knife to tear the T-shirt open, dragging it up Jacob's torso without slicing through the skin, only leaving a faint, reddish trace. "Don't worry," he says as he crawls up, pulls Jacob to him, pressing open-mouthed kisses against his hammering pulse, "it'll heal fast. It'll scar."

Jacob makes a strangled noise. Paul presses the knife harder against his stomach. He bites the exposed skin of Jacob's throat, still laughing, and then brings his free hand down to collect the blood that's pearling on Jacob's stomach. "Look, it's beautiful. You wanna taste it?" Jacob looks straight at him, for a moment everything is still, electric; Paul crushes his mouth against his. "Joe would want you to taste it," he whispers. 

He waits for Jacob to call him out on the lie but he doesn't; when Paul thrusts his fingers into his mouth he doesn't resist, drags his tongue and sucks the blood off hungrily, giving the skin little nips, as though he wanted to chip all the flesh away, like a raven. Isn't that what ravens do? Jacob would probably know that shit. He always knows how everything's supposed to go. 

"To the bedroom," Paul says. It sounds like a suggestion, but it's an order - at least that's what the knife says. For a moment Paul envies Jacob again, wants the knife for himself, the sweet stinging pain, the background ache of torn skin and the damp blood coagulating black; but it ebbs as soon as Jacob goes willingly, smirking. Paul stops him when they get to the door: he pushes his palms flat on Jacob's chest, tearing away the last remnants of cloth, and makes him walk backwards until he's pressed against the door, the knife still on his stomach. Paul glances down at it and considers their choice with a connoisseur eye: metal handle, stainless steel blade. Jacob catches his gaze, smiles, showing teeth. His laughter is high-pitched and breathless, stinks of arousal. 

"It's a beauty, right?"

Paul nods, twirls it against Jacob's skin. He sees Jacob's cock twitch and it makes him harden in return. Oh, they're beautiful too. Fucked-up beyond belief, but the best always are, right? 

"It'll probably never go dull," Jacob says gleefully. 

"Do you ever ever shut up?" Paul presses the knife to the new wound. Jacob hisses. 

Jacob's eyes are blazing. "Make me."

 _Danger, danger_ , Paul's brain says, like the one time he struck his father back, dared say no; but Paul has gotten so good at not listening to it. Joe helped. Joe always helps. 

So Paul pretends to consider it, gives a smile, tongue pushing against the back of his teeth, "Yeah, okay."

He plasters himself against Jacob, Jacob's cock half-hard now, and kisses him, tongue and teeth and hot and wet and everything Paul shouldn't give in to because Paul, Paul isn't good at this kind of thing, at respecting boundaries, at not stealing what's someone else's. But it's too late. It's too late now, it was too late the day they moved in, so - who cares? Not Paul, especially not when Jacob's hands fly to his crotch to unzip him, his tongue stuck between his teeth, and Paul grips his forearm and shoves him roughly against the door, forcing him to turn until his cheek is mashed in the wood.

He doesn't really plan on Jacob struggling and managing to get them _through_ the door, tumbling on the bed on an haphazard heap, but he doesn't mind: he crawls on top of him and helps Jacob take the rest of his clothes off, until he's lying there, flushed and panting and grinning like a devil and Paul doesn't care what happens next, except that he thinks he understands what Rick meant about fire and how good it feels when it's whole, when it surrounds everything and burns it to ashes. He sees Jacob look up at him, with his parted lips and his chest heaving with breathless laughter, his cock bouncing on his stomach, and he understands what it means to be consumed. 

All of a sudden Jacob leans up on his elbows and flips them over. Paul hadn't anticipated it at all; the knife slides out of his fingers and he slumps awkwardly to the side, his head hitting the bedpost. "Shit!"

Jacob laughs again. He's bent over, rummaging in the sheets until he emerges, victorious, with the knife in his hand, "That what you searching for?" and Paul wasn't searching for it, had forgotten about it, had forgotten about anything that wasn't _Jacob_ , but he would do more than lie for this fucker, so he says, "Yeah," and he yields to the kisses, accepts the prodding tongue and the teeth nagging at his bottom lip and the metallic tang of blood. 

He doesn't mind Jacob being in control, in the end. He could have it another way, but if it means this, if it means Jacob straddling his hips, his thighs spread obscenely, lifting himself up and impaling himself on Paul's cock, Paul's got no objections. He can have all the control he wants. Truth is, it overwhelms him a little, the whole thing. It feels like he's burning from the inside, like he's a fucking Poe poem with added filth, and Jacob isn't moving, is still, lowering himself on Paul's cock, inch by inch, and Paul might very well explode. He closes his eyes and colored spots immediately cloud his vision. How much time has it been since he felt like that? He feels like a fucking cliché when he feels his hands grapple for the sheets, the wooden frame of the bed, but he doesn't care. One of his nails breaks. The pain sings through him, up his forearms, reverberating in his shoulder. He opens him mouth to share it with Jacob (to share everything, everything) but the heat is incredible, and if Jacob doesn't move Paul doesn't know what he will do but -

"Move," he says between clenched teeth. 

Jacob pants. Paul doesn't open his eyes but he can see him, face screwed in pleasure-pain, a deep ridge between his eyebrows. Where is he holding the knife? Against his own throat? Oh, that would be a twist, that would - but he feels the cold tip touch his chest, tease a nipple, and it's like an electric shock. He sucks in breath. The whole world seems to hang by a thread. The knife is still for a few seconds, and then - is that - is he - are those _words_? 

Paul isn't sure there is anything in his brain that isn't mush, turned liquid by pleasure, but he tries and focus. Focus. The cold steel drags itself on his skin, elegant curlicues forming letters. They're not block letters, either, not a blunt capital letter on someone's stomach - not it's something else, the delicate cruelty of calligraphy. Focus, Paul tells himself, willing his brain to clear. J... O... E. Okay. That one isn't hard. Joe. Joe. The name fills him with a new energy, and he wants to tell Jacob to move again, he will - the name - but there is another one. E... M... M...

"Move, for fuck's sake," he hisses. 

Maybe it's the urgency in his voice, maybe it's something else. Maybe Jacob is just as mad, as insane as he promised he was, that first time. Whatever it is, whatever it is that drives him, he does it: he lifts himself and Paul feels his cock plunge into him and fill him and after that there's no intelligible thought in his brain, only the knife cutting a crooked letter - J - on the thin skin over the bone of his hip, as though by accident, and then dragging his nails through the sweat on Jacob's back, dragging him close, fucking into him over and over, rippling with the aftershock, the fire of it, and - what did Joe say? - surrendering to insanity. Surrendering. It's certainly what it feels like. 

Jacob's thighs tighten around his ribs, hard enough that it's difficult to breathe, but Paul wouldn't even if he could. The rhythm increases, the damp slap-slap of their hips meeting obscene in the stillness of the room, and Paul becomes aware of everything that there is, their framed photos, the folded clothes on the chair, the evening light, too clear, and he's pretty sure he says Jacob's name once or twice even though he doesn't want to. There's surrendering and then there's losing.

But Jacob doesn't care, does he? Jacob is a fucking mystery, he's a mystery wrapped in lovely flesh and his nipples are hard and he's moving over Paul, his hips moving like he's learned it somewhere Jacob doesn't want to know about, with his cherub looks and his debauched mouth, red and made for sucking cock even though he doesn't like it, he's _not gay, Paul_ but Paul isn't gay either and look where they are, taking it in the ass with a knife and a bunch of scars. 

"I -," Jacob pants. 

Paul wishes he would say his name, just once. He's got it on his skin, though, and it'll do for now - skin can't lie. 

"Yeah," Paul urges, come on. He sits up and fucks back into Jacob, giving as good as he gets, whispering all the filth he can't think of in Jacob's mouth, the steel still scalding cold, wedged between their stomach. He thinks about taking hold of it and tracing the veins on Jacob's beautiful, bouncing cock with it, following the blood up to his pelvis, counting the second as it pulses, but it'll have to wait, because - it doesn't matter now, Paul's coming and snaking a hand down to pull the last strokes on Jacob's cock, until his come splatters Paul's chest and the slight rise of his belly, dripping a little down his side. 

"Fuck," Jacob breathes out. Paul can't decide if he sounds satisfied or just shocked.

They stay a little like that, breathing in, the adrenaline cooling down between them. Paul waits for the shame but it doesn't come, maybe because Jacob's taken all of it or maybe because it finally worked, Joe's miracle cure. _You've gotta believe in yourself, Paul. You're the master,_ he said, his eyes bright and crazy and everything inadequate Paul always felt there was about himself vanished into those eyes, the deep black of them. Surely it couldn't be bad, could it? He knows better now. It's bad, but it doesn't matter. It's worth the price, every bit of it. 

Jacob's dislodges himself from Paul and slumps on the bed, until they're lying side by side, Jacob's face half-turned away from him, his arms wrapped around his ribs. It's a mess, there's blood and come everywhere and the knife is between them, staining the sheets, the blood already crusty on the blade. The sweet pain at Paul's temple calls to the one at his hip, like responding music. He doesn't look at Jacob, looks at the ceiling instead, trying to shake his thoughts back into place. He thinks about Emma. Maybe he should've killed his father, he thinks idly, as the darkness rises like a high tide, stretching its tentacular arms towards him. Maybe then, Jacob would -

The tide ebbs, taking him in.


End file.
